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2014-02-28- The Cat and the Cowpoke
The gym had a very profitable week. After a long, hard but not particularly stressful day we find Stretch Skinner counting up the receipts. This being Gotham he has a large baseball bat on the counter next to the ever present plate of scones. A laptop is on and he is carefully entering the receipts. A pot of coffee is brewing and filling the gym with a pleasant aroma. Tony the dance instructor is cleaning equipment between sips of a chi-chi imported beer. Some blue bottled nonsense. The taxi pulls up in front of Grant's Gym, and a lanky figure unfolds from the back seat. Greg Saunders re-adjusts his black Stetson and hauls out a large nylon bag that passes for luggage, shoulders it, and then hauls out two guitar cases of well-traveled black leather. The cowboy quirks a smile at the familiar building facade; it's one of those places in Gotham that remains mostly unchanged, no matter the sprawl of the cityscape that's grown around it over the last half a century. That makes it a comforting sight for the displaced cowpoke, a familiar bunkhouse in a strange land. The driver clears his throat and Greg takes the prompt, pulling out some bills to hand him. "Much appreciate the ride, sir. Take care out there now," he drawls and then reclaims the baggage and steps lively into the murky classroom of Ted Grant's sweet science. Inside, he pauses just inside the door to take in the nostalgic photos, and that distinct scent of sweat, cleaning products, leather and an undercurrent of hops & barley beverages past. Yup. Place still holds up as a home away from home. Stretch looks up from the counter. He thought Tony got the door. Figures. New Yorkers are so trusting and laid back compared to Gothamites. "Sorry sir we're closed tighter than a fat lady's bikini. I thought my asso-see-yate hung thet sign out." He's polite enough but one hand is under the counter. Greg looks away from the black and white photo he's studying, one taken the night Ted took Kid Fradelos for a little re-training session at the Garden. Greg had been there for it, and for the afterparty. Back in...what was it? 1948? He shakes the memory loose and thumbs back the brim of his hat to consider Stretch. "Howdy, young feller. I did see the sign, but was a'hopin' it didn't hold for old friends o' the Champ," he gives an easy smile to go with the rural twang. His eyes are less casual, riveting the spot where Stretch's hand is concealed. "An' no need t' tickle that smokewagon, son. I ain't here to cause no ruckus. Just to see an old trail pardner." Stretch looks at Greg with narrowed eyes and says, "Air you making fun o' the way ah talk?" If anyhting he amps his drawl up several notches. Tony watches the exchange with interest. Then seems to twig to something. He does a sort of clap that looks like he forgot he has elbows and then comes over to Greg, one hand on his chest, "Uhm excuse me? Are you Greg Saunders? The Prairie Troubador? You opened for Junior Brown back a few years?" "Nope. In fact, just the t'other way around, kid. Ah'm enjoyin' talkin' with someone who don't sound like he hails from around these parts, same as me. Kinda like a taste o' home, 'round all these frappa-crappa-ccino orderin' sorts," Greg chuckles, a deep melody echoing in contrast to the more sombre surroundings. He still keeps an eye on the gunhand, but does a partial turn to the other fella. "No offense meant." That's tacked on for the approaching Tony. "Well, now...that's a good question. Here's one back: Do I look old enough t' be that Greg Saunders?" The question is still posed with a quirked grin. "Truth be told, ah'm -a- Greg Saunders, but mebbe not the one y'all are thinkin' of. Ma always said the Saunders men looked like they was whittled from the same stick." Tony looks a little crestfallen. "Oh sorry. I just figured ... you said you were an old friend of the Champ and he's ... well he says he's in Godalmighty's Highschool Yearbook. You must be the old friend he said was coming in. Have a seat Mr. Saunders. Help yourself to a scone, they're really good. Would you like a coffee or tea?" Stretch is still regarding Greg suspiciously. "Go get Mr. Grant Tony. I'll entertain Mr. Saunders. AFter I lock up." He gets up to do just that. Tony goes upstairs scratching his head. The crestfallen look isn't lost on Greg; he -hates- having to meander around who he is, exactly. He tries not to out-and-out lie about it, but his current revitalized appearance would be in stark contrast to the way he looked...gray and tubby and wrinkled...just a few years back. Maybe later, if Ted gives the OK on these two, he can come clean. But for now, best to keep trying to carve out a new identity to go with the ID Victor Leong provided, for Greg Travis Saunders, Jr. "We rode some together," is the simple answer he provides for Tony. "An' yup, Champ hold up well, don't he? Considerin' his prom date was Helen o' Troy. Black coffee would taste mighty good, if it ain't too much trouble. Much obliged." Greg puts down his burden, finds a seat at Stretch's reply and takes off his hat. No sooner does Greg sit down then a familiar voice yells, "We aren't a flophouse for every country crooner coming through. Who let you in?" Ted jumps down the stairs landing with cat like grace (of course.) He's wearing a black workout suit and hoodie. He cracks his knuckles menacingly. He can't keep from smirking though, can't keep the intimidaitng stare. This is obviously an old game. Greg looks up as Ted makes an entrnace and the qurked smile turns into a full-on, dazzling grin. "Ah let myself in, on accounta all the upscale flophouses was full!" The cowboy rises and crosses to Ted, offering his hand in true Western son fashion. "And another thang...I thought you'd be taller," he tacks on, a line also sounding like some sort of ongoing and time-honored repartee, complete with a faux-tone of disappointment. Even though he has to look -up- to the pugilist to deliver it. Warmth returns to the singer's voice as he says, "Champ, good t' see ya. Yore lookin' mighty well. Clean livin' pays off." Wildcat nods as he returns the grip. He looks briefly at Stretch and Tony and says, "Grown up time, guys." They both head to the classrooms in the back. "Oh yeah clean living. Well I don't drink anymore. I don't drink any less either," Ted says. "You are a sight for sore eyes, Greg. I could use some moral supportbetween you and me, and you're the only moral person I know these days." "Aw, hell," Greg laughs easily, shaking Ted's hand with the appropriate firmness that Ted expects and that always requires a few minutes to let the blood flow and feeling return to Greg's digits. "If yore holdin' -me- up as a paragon o' virtue, thangs is worse than I thought! But if it's support ya need, you know I'll back whatever play ya got in mind, Champ." The cowboy crooner watches the 'kids' retreat, giving them a little salute from his brow...two-fingered salute, the nice kind, and not the single finger flag-waving he's seen while navigating Gotham traffic. "Ah was hopin' t' get some street-workin' rights from ya, if a certain motorcycle cowboy came inta town to do some roundups. Sounds like you may have somethin' more specific in mind, Champ. Do tell." Wildcat sits down and says, "Well for starters, Vandal Savage and Luthor are trying to turn the public against mystery men. The old lovechild had a rally here. Pfft like that ever works for more than a month. Anyway I want to help the Batman if I can and I figure to low key it in Gotham until I work something out with him. The Bat is a good guy and face it, he's way more into this stuff than we are. Thing is he's been booked solid and not come to see me yet." "So I figure to keep my hand in it the best thing to do is hit the burbs, Bludhaven, New Guernsey and deal with the villains who try to keep under the Bat-Radar. I been looking to put together a crew. I have Stretch, he's my 'kick and mechanic. Tony ... is new and I decided to bring him in too as support. I'll teach him self defense and let him do field work if he wants but he knows who I am. He's a good kid. I can get an assist from Catwoman and possibly the B;ack Canary. I also sent some feelers out for Lady Blackhawk and the No-Face Guy." "Sounds like the makin's of a good set o' drive hands," Greg nods and rubs his chin, considering the names tossed into the Stetson by Ted. "An' a workable plan. You an' me both know, sometimes when ya soar above the herd, ya lose sight o' what's happenin' on the trail. Need a few ramrods workin' on the ground, an' you done wrote the book on that kinda justice." One name thrown out does seem to give Greg a moment of pause, though. "Catwoman, huh? Don't get me wrong, pard...she's got a right smart costume theme goin'. But word is, shiny an' expensive thangs tend t' grow legs an' walk aff when she's around. She gonna cause more grief than she deals the owlhoots?" Wildcat waves off the objection. "Don't worry about her. If she's there to help she's there to help. I'll deal with her. The girl gets a bad rap, much of which she don't deserve. Anyway ... I have a spare room and a spare slab for your bike. You're staying right here. It's movie night!" "Well, that's good enough for me, then." Literally, as the crease in the cowboy's brow smoothes; if Ted says Catwoman is on th up-and-up, then you can cash it at the bank. "Reckon we can get any o' them whippersnappers that's part o' the Bat-Posse to sign on? Or are they off limits if'n they bear the Bat-brand?" As to the occomadations, "Ah'm much obliged, Ted. I still got the headquarters upstate New York for re-supply an' sundry what not, but the commute'd drive me plumb loco. I stashed the Vig-Cycle before comin' in, not sure if there'd be a place by it for that Cat-o-Wampus ride o' yorn," Greg smiles. "I promise no hoopla in the bunkhouse, an' my special recipe o' Saunders Chili only once a week unless on request. Movie night, huh? What's a-playin'?" Ted says deadpan, "Breakfast at Tiffany's. Tony won the damned coin toss."